


Complimentary

by jfk_96



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Cozy, Gen, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 20:52:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17190191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk_96/pseuds/jfk_96
Summary: Freddie gets a bad rap. circa 1977.





	Complimentary

It was a fraction past midday when the band gathered for breakfast. Freddie, after a meticulous morning ritual, arrived last, meandering into the hotel anteroom with little of his on-stage buoyancy. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of garishly rimmed shades - a pair most unsuited for brunch, of all things - and the light they were reflecting pricked John in the eyes. Brian, at the head of the table, made a low noise that could’ve been a greeting. Freddie responded with equal indifference.

The group were visibly worn out - it was nearing the end of their European tour of _A Day at the Races_ , and the festivities of the night stewed vaguely in their minds. The tour itself had been a great success, the UK shows remarkably so, and great success, of course, meant great celebration.

They were right at home now, playing venues in Bristol, Liverpool, Southampton, _London._ It was refreshing to tread on such familiar ground, but the very familiarity meant that after-parties swam with familiar faces - and for better or worse, it was enough motivation to get consistently shit-faced. Freddie found that England became smaller with every tour. Or, he privately mused, maybe he was just growing too big.

Freddie surveyed the table with an awful throbbing sensation behind his eyes. There was tea and toast and jam and all sorts positioned at its centre, rested atop a kitschy pink-and-purple woollen coaster. Though he felt rather in the mood for something cooked, Freddie ached at the thought of actually finding someone to cook it, so the desire was neglected. The desire to pester his dishevelled companions, however, remained very much at his disposal. He wondered if a bandmate might kindly find him some eggs; Brian was _only_ engaged in a crossword, and John in buttering his toast, occasionally assisting with the crossword. Between sips of coffee, Roger flipped through a nearby magazine, choosing to settle on something apparently eye-catching after a moment of deliberation. Before Freddie could dictate his request, the morning lull was broken - Brian had met 17 across with a furrowed brow.

“Fred, you might know this one: ‘the obstruction of breath when speaking’- it’s 9 letters. I haven’t a clue.”

Blowing lightly on his fingernails, Freddie considered the question. He had felt artistically inclined to paint them black that morning after picturing, in detail, a scenario in which Freddie Mercury could give a fabulously painted two-fingered salute to the next daring heckler. He’d considered making the rest of the band follow suit - for _costume coherency,_ which was a very important feature of any band _-_ but it would be simply _criminal_ to draw attention to the hideously whittled-down state of John and Brian’s fingernails due to years of plucking strings. And Roger bit his nails, a filthy habit. No, he would have to pioneer this style alone.

“Try ‘occlusion’. My love, you couldn’t get up and find me some eggs or something, could you?”

Brian pencilled it in, mildly disappointed that he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“I don’t think I can, Fred. Touch of, uh, seasickness.”

Freddie huffed and rested his hands on the table. “You poor old thing. And here I was thinking it was just me,” he said, pinching some toast from its knitted island. “No, no. Don’t get up. You’re lucky I’m in dire need of some fibre.”

On another morning, Brian would’ve been more compelled to argue that bread was more of a carbohydrate, but today he felt in no fit state to bicker with his old friend about food groups. Instead, he let out a tired sigh and rubbed his eyes - Freddie could be a diva unshackled.

The morning stretched on. The clock, perched on the wall adjacent to Freddie, said 12:14 - the band didn’t have to leave until about 5 in the afternoon. It was one of those mornings where no one had much to say that couldn’t be said later, and waiting until later wasn’t particularly fun, but Freddie noticed that Roger was uncharacteristically inanimate at present. He would usually be the first to tell Freddie that if he wanted something, he should bloody well get it himself, but the moment seemed to pass over his head. He was peering, or possibly squinting, at a magazine, as if he were a pensioner reading _The Times._ The band were sure he needed reading glasses, but Roger refused, insisting that they would fly off his nose and break while he was drumming so the whole investment would be “bleeding pointless, Fred, stop bringing it up” _._ Freddie decided he would propose another shopping jaunt for eyewear when Roger was a bit less touchy, but for now, remedying the stillness in the air was his mission.

“And what’s this muck about, Rog? You know what I think of that glib stuff,” Freddie probed, making a show of being more interested in his nails and his breakfast than the muck in question.

Roger’s gaze briefly flicked from the paper. “Not everything’s glib, _Madam_. It’s about nuclear power,” he said, turning the page. “I think they’re building one of those plants near my Gran. Says it’s Orwellian.”

Brian snorted at this. “‘Course. And what does the NME know about renewable energy?”

“More than you, I’d wager,” muttered Roger.

Freddie bristled at the name, appearing to remember something unsavoury. Perhaps he found ‘NME’ to be synonymous with ‘unsavoury’, though _ghastly, brutish tabloid_ also came to mind. The New Wave was so devoid of artistry that the very thought of a news item dedicated to it was greatly entertaining. What on earth was there to write about?

Though, on this occasion, Freddie had a precarious feeling that he knew what on earth they had written about.

There had been a moment of madness after a recent show at Earl’s Court where he’d felt it imperative to share Queen’s vision with every echelon of the industry, thus prompting a particularly prickly interview with one of many badgering New Wave journalists. _He’d_ appeared at a number of their West Germany shows; a suit with a name akin to Kieth or Terry or Tony. Freddie found the horizontal stripes of his mauve blazer to be quite unflattering and wondered if it was normal for a punk to be so rigid and _thin_. Freddie also wondered what it would be like to have a bodyguard lingering at his side, so he arranged for it, putting the critic deliciously on edge before even a word was spoken. Upon reflection, perhaps it wasn’t a necessary action, but Freddie usually saved reflecting for the later hours of the day. Anyway, the whole thing made for a hilarious phone call to Mary.

He hazily recalled the interview. Freddie was sure he’d woven the band’s vision with colour; he was determined to forge a vibrant and teasing and flamboyant encounter for those miserable NME editors. The writer himself was astute, though a little irritable and mundane at times, and offered Freddie some engaging back-and-forth dialogue when pushed. Freddie didn’t particularly care to see the final piece - and it was unlikely he’d ever come into contact with it - but the permanent influence of the NME made criticism increasingly hard to ignore. He’d encountered a few scathing pieces regarding the tour recently, some published by this same author, and ‘ _Mercury: What a Spiv!_ ’ was becoming an all too familiar thorn. But, if it ever stung, he bore it with a smile.

Freddie wanted to ask if that made him brave. His inner mantras might have greater impact if they came from someone else. Nevertheless, brave or not, Freddie’s curiosity could rarely be suppressed, so he regarded Roger once more.

“Was that published today?” he asked, gesturing to the magazine.

Roger nodded. “Every Saturday. They wouldn’t give me last week’s paper, Fred.”

“Don’t be smart”, he said, shifting fully to face Roger. “I’d like to have a look, if you can tear yourself away for a moment.”

With eyebrows raised, Roger passed him the magazine, propping his chin in his vacant hand. “I thought it was ‘glib’.”

“Mm. Suppose I’ll make sure.”

He uncurled the magazine from Roger’s fold and scanned the front cover. ‘New Musical Express’ was written in the top left corner, coloured in dull-red and obscured by a monochrome image of a band hideously clad in leather and t-shirts and jeans - _The Ramones_ , maybe. It occurred to Freddie that his interview might’ve been ousted by one of these nameless jean-wearers, or perhaps the latest _Sex Pistols_ controversy, vacuous as it was. This thought was abruptly dashed once Freddie had glossed over Roger’s nuclear trivia; it was dashed in one dreary-red headline.

 _IS THIS MAN A PRAT?_ , it read with vicious simplicity.

Freddie lent back in his chair and exhaled doggedly, tossing the magazine back on the table open at the offending page. It narrowly missed landing flatly on John’s cup of tea. John, now suddenly engaged, angled his head sideways to read the article from where he was sitting.

“‘ _Is-this-man-a-prat?_ ’” he read aloud. The dry title made him chuckle as he twisted his head further to one side. “Charming. I wonder who they’re-”

Recognition brought him to a stop upon noticing the attached picture. It was of Freddie in the midst of a performance, adorning the infamous Nijinsky-esque one-piece he’d insisted on wearing for the tour. Immortalised on paper, the image didn’t _quite_ convey the passion Freddie was radiating at the time - in fact, when coupled with the snide headline, it made him look rather silly.

“Ah. They must be asking that of you, Fred.” John added, a touch sheepishly.

Freddie pinched the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t expected a glowing review - this was the press, after all - but nothing made Freddie more irreversibly sour than ignorance. He’d explained their work so clearly, so precisely as to avoid such instances, yet these _ignorant_ pieces continued to churn out thick and fast. The energy they inspired was like a paste, clogging his eyes and ears and throwing him completely off kilter. Still, he refused to be personally affronted - Freddie didn’t consider himself one for hurt feelings - yet he struggled to escape the exasperation felt when met with such journalistic pedantry. And it wasn’t easing his hangover one bit, which was reason enough to be, perhaps, more irritated about the whole thing than usual.

“So bloody caught up in this _bloody_ ballet rigmarole. How many times must I elaborate on something so plain- yet, _apparently,_ it’s completely inconceivable- and still, _I’m_ the prat?” Freddie scoffed and gesticulated stiffly, appearing to pry the words out with his movements. “These sods should get the sack for being so- so artistically dilute! O, good _God_ , I’m tired,” he continued.

“Prat,” he scoffed once more, digesting the word. “That’s right. I’m the _prat_ who gives them something to write about- the _prat_ who must be earning them their wages at this point. For all the time I spent with that venomous, mousy- no, _ratty_ journo, and the bloody thing’s not even on the front page! Lord, how Nijinsky must _capsize_ in his grave.” 

Freddie lay his head in his hands, exhausted, irksome and hungover. He planned to extend the pause until someone offered him sufficient consolation. Freddie hadn’t noticed that his bandmates were, instead, sharing a few mildly bemused looks with each other, but they were all more entertained than concerned. Freddie’s outburst had  touched Roger in particular, who meant to disguise his growing smirk with a long sip of coffee, but he had not the strength; a muffled snort left him and met with his drink, causing him to slightly choke and laugh even more.

Freddie’s head turned gravely to face him. It seemed _quite clear_ that his friend hadn’t appreciated the sheer proportion of his own intellectual grief. He extended his arm across the table to hold an expectant hand in front of John, careful not to hinder the withering look aimed at Roger.

“Deaky, hand me that rubbish. I want to hit him.”

The magazine was surrendered, curled into a cylinder to facilitate the beating. Though they were thick as thieves, John could offer Roger no mercy on this occasion: if Roger was under the impression that he was allowed use the rest of John’s conditioner _and_ pinch his hairbrush, even when instructed not to touch anything on John’s side of the bathroom sink, he was sorely mistaken.

“Wait, wait! Ow- stop it-”

“-Alright, it’s bad, but it’s just the stupid papers. God, stop it!”

Freddie swatted at him, though he wasn’t hard to ward off - drumming had given Roger a surprising amount of upper body strength despite his smaller frame, allowing him to seize Freddie’s wrist mid-swat. It was playful, sure, but Freddie would likely be in a foul mood all day unless his feelings were addressed, which could play havoc with his performance later (heaven forbid). Even worse, Roger knew he wouldn’t hear the end of it from Brian if he wound him up any more, and his inner-Brian was telling him to reign it in.

So, he tried. “It’s just a bit odd that you’re so cross about it. You don’t usually get all moody about the reviews.”

“Well, I’m losing my wits. And that’s not funny.”

“It is a _bit-_ ”

“Reviews are different from this tosh, anyway!”

Roger groaned. “Yes, it’s tosh, but- playing devil’s advocate, here, Fred- it would be miles easier to just ignore the bloody thing. What is it that you find so offensive, anyway? ‘Prat’?”

The thought of Freddie grief-stricken over such a tame slur was amusing to Roger, who could list on both hands many more insulting names Freddie had thrown about in the past few days.

“Come on, Fred. It’s not _that_ bad,” he reasoned. It was a challenge to interpret Freddie’s mood with dark glass obscuring his eyes, but the straight purse of his lips suggested that he wasn’t much pleased. “Or, maybe you could sue for- oh, what’s it called- _inflammation_. That would be a right affair, wouldn’t it, lads?”

Brian was quite certain that this conversation was careening in an awful, awful direction. He didn’t have children of his own, but the scene before him was a reminder that he was considerably well-rehearsed if ever he did. Freddie had a dangerous propensity for putting actions over words - a silly thing he’d picked up from his father, Brian suspected - which suggested that _legal_ action over _some words in the paper_ was not too far off the mark. The thought of Freddie acting on his own or, even worse, according to Roger’s input, was the sort of thing that kept him awake at night. A fiasco like that would be detrimental to the band’s image, more so for their frontman, and would undoubtedly cost a fortune. It was overwhelmingly distracting; his crossword still looked rather sparse.

“To be fair, Fred,” interjected Brian, who was leaning over their complimentary jams to pluck the magazine from Freddie’s raised hand, “they’ve not _decided_ you’re a prat. It’s a question- they’re still working it out, I suppose. It might be implying you’re a prat - which you aren’t - but it’s not a statement as such. So _you_ ,” he pointed the rolled magazine at Roger, paused, then rapped him on the head with it as Freddie had done, “stop giving him bright ideas. And it’s ‘defamation’, by the way. Not ‘inflammation’. You’re thinking of a rash. Mind you,” Brian mused briefly, “if reading the NME had _actually_ made you swell up, you could probably sue for even more.”

Roger’s headache was not getting the gentle treatment it deserved. “Alright, _Grandad._ Keep going with those crosswords and I’m sure they’ll have you on _University Challenge_ ,” he taunted. Brian seemed likely to hit him again, but the look on Roger’s face warned that if he did, he’d get a handful of peanuts down his trousers at some point this afternoon. Brian flattened the paper.

Head in his hands once more, Freddie was awash with an emotion he couldn’t place. Was it doubt? He knew who he was, he knew his purpose, he knew why they were gathered here this morning. He felt war-torn. It must’ve been the fatigue - he was suddenly rather tender about the events in his life thus far, recounting all the good, bad and ugly parts with great mindfulness. Was it fair that Freddie was so scrutinised, despite there being 3 other members in the band? No, but he had to take it. His companions couldn’t stomach flak like he could. Then why had this daft headline caused such a stir in him? Perhaps he was experiencing some sort of Freudian regression. He felt like draping himself across one of those long, leathered therapy couches, with a sensible voice adrift in his mind tasked at unpicking these tangled thoughts, or maybe just for a nap. He didn’t really have time for that, sadly - writing in his diary would have to do.

Brian noticed Freddie picking at the tassels dangling from the tablecloth, absentmindedly pulling off bits of string. Of course, he felt bad for him; Freddie often dramatised his feelings, but the crux of the drama was still grounded in real, human emotion. Moments like this were a window into how human Freddie actually was, separate from the showbiz and the champagne and the interviews. Brian took up the magazine and cleared his throat loudly, mimicking an announcement. Maybe reading the bloody thing would reduce it to absurdity and the moment would passas quickly as it arrived.

He began to read aloud.

 _“‘Freddie Mercury has always liked to dance the Millionaire's Waltz. There's a story about him, dating back to his days as an impoverished student… It was before Queen were formed and he was running a stall in Kensington Market with the_ delicately pretty _drummer, Roger Taylor.’”_ Brian chuckled. “Friends of yours, Rog? _”_

Roger advised him to piss off. Unfazed, Brian continued:

“‘ _Apparently the venture was not a tremendous financial success and it perturbed Freddie that he would be unable to afford a taxi to take him home. According to fable he was so reluctant to undergo the indignities of public transport that he secretly sold Taylor's jacket to pay his own cabfare._ ’”

“You did _what?”_ Roger’s mouth hung open in disbelief. “Ha! Maybe you are a prat, after all.”

Freddie fought a smile. He remembered the incident fondly.

“Don’t be daft. It’s obviously fabricated - I couldn’t possibly,” he teased.

“Really? You couldn't? Well it sounds hauntingly familiar- I remember that jacket. Bloody warm, it was. Perfect for milling around in Kensington Market all day in the middle of sodding January. I thought it got nicked.”

 “God, it was hideous. Can’t have been stolen.”

"Where’s it gone, then?”

Freddie let out a lengthy sigh and gripped his friend’s shoulder with pseudo-reassurance. “I don’t have a crystal ball, cherub. Hopefully it’s in a tip somewhere, or incinerated, or recycled into some poor old lady’s curtains. Anyway, it didn’t suit you. Silver lining, my love! I’ll get you a nicer one.”

 Roger snorted. “You prick. You’ll be sorry when I write my memoirs. I’ll call it: ‘Y _es, Freddie Was A Prat and He Sold My Nice Jacket For A Few Measly Pence_.’”

Freddie gave Roger’s shoulder a small squeeze. “Rolls off the tongue, darling… and straight into the bin. Your memoirs shall be as thick as a pamphlet with the amount of time you’ve spent fussing over that coat - I _could_ slip it at the end of my own writing, though, if you’re looking for a few more sales.”

“Rotten bitch!”

Roger placed a hand over his heart, appearing to be greatly wounded. The faux-hurt on his face made Freddie’s lips creep towards a smile, followed by an eruption of shaky laughter, in which he begged Roger to forgive him for secretly selling his tatty old coat. They were both laughing now, Freddie was nearly doubled over were it not for his grip on Roger. John watched with a grin; spats between his mates were usually quite ridiculous. He found that Freddie and Roger could bicker about most things, like two young boys fighting over a truck or a colouring book. Just the other day, while Brian was on the subject of family gatherings (his dad’s birthday was in a fortnight and he was eager to prepare), the two had entered a vicious dispute over what might be the best dessert for the occasion. Freddie insisted that it was crème brûlée – not only was it deliciously foreign, but also filling and small enough to manage when serving a number of guests – but to Roger, Freddie was gravely mistaken: the king of all desserts was fruitcake. They argued for almost 45 minutes on the subject and were only a phone call away from inviting their parents to the studio to settle their feud. It must be great fun for any flies-on-the-wall, John thought.

With this in mind, John wondered what he’d call his own memoirs about his time in the band, because as it stood, _Crème Brûlée or Fruitcake by John Deacon_ didn’t sound like it would fly off the shelves.

It was John’s turn to fully behold the magazine. It was looking a bit crumpled now, with everyone throwing it around, and a spot of drying tea had been accidentally splashed on the word ‘prat’. Skimming through the article, he didn’t notice anything particularly exciting. It was the same old spiel about the band being helplessly trapped in the throes of Freddie Mercury’s narcissism - ‘the band’ translating to Brian and Roger – there was little to no mention of the illusive fourth member of Queen, _the bass player_. John mused as to whether it was more appropriate to feel offended at this omission or to count his blessings. Why the _hell_ had Freddie gone through with the interview in the first place? Was he out of his mind? - perhaps. He’d surely dug his own grave upon agreement, silly old tart. John equated it to being one of Freddie’s odd spontaneous moments he’d never quite understand.

While listening the table natter vaguely about politics, (Brian was exuberant about a potential wildlife act being jostled in parliament), John scribbled a pair horns on Freddie’s picture and coloured some stripes onto his Nijinsky costume in biro. Knowing Freddie, he’d probably wear what John had doodled at their next show. The thought made him smirk. What on earth would the NME make of that?

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by quite an infamous interview between Freddie Mercury and Tony Stewart of the NME http://www.queenarchives.com/index.php?title=Freddie_Mercury_-_06-18-1977_-_NME


End file.
